


Diamonds in the Rough

by ArmIa



Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (IDW Comics), Sonic the Hedgehog (Video Games), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Bi-Curiosity, Bisexuality, Consensual Sex, Drunk Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, Drunkenness, F/F, F/M, Fivesome - F/F/M/M/M, Foursome - F/M/M/M, Group Sex, M/M, Mercenaries, Military, Multi, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Canon, Threesome - F/M/M, no canon ages we die like fanfic writers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:15:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26496982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArmIa/pseuds/ArmIa
Summary: Little deaths, before he destroyed them.
Relationships: Mimic the Octopus/Slinger the Ocelot, Smithy the Lion/Slinger the Ocelot, Whisper the Wolf/Mimic the Octopus, Whisper the Wolf/Mimic the Octopus/Slinger the Ocelot, Whisper the Wolf/Slinger the Ocelot, Whisper the Wolf/Smithy the Lion
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	Diamonds in the Rough

**Author's Note:**

> I'm usually a stickler for the source material, but I absolutely do not give a shit what Sega say what the Diamond Cutters' canon ages are. All these characters are adults in my interpretation and I'm treating them as such. Call it canon divergent, call it acceptable breaks from canon, call it whatever you like, but these characters are professional soldiers. I don't have specific ages for them, but just to give you an idea: Smithy and Mimic are in their early 30's, Whisper is in her mid-20's, Claire is in her early 20's, and Slinger is 20(ish) but says he's older. They're not kids.

It's 0400- four in the morning, in civvy speak- and the Diamond Cutters have all had just a little too much to drink.

It was Slinger’s suggestion they squander their earnings on booze, but this is hardly atypical. They’re soldiers, after all. They earned their pay today. 

Claire said she’d see them back at HQ. Her powers take more out of her than lugging around that minigun takes out of Smithy, or shapeshifting takes out of Mimic. Slinger actually seems to get a thrill out of it, making a game of juggling his weapons, dancing through the gunfire with a grin on his face, safe in the knowledge that nobody can touch him with Whisper on overwatch. 

Not Claire. She isn’t in a drinking mood. She wants nothing more than to pop a couple of aspirin and hit the hay, but she doesn’t begrudge her team a night on the town. Their blood is still up. She told them to have one for her, and they were more than happy to fulfil that objective.

Nobody objected when Mimic said that the first round was on him, too battle-weary to question this uncharacteristic generosity. Slinger was the first to ask if he was talking strictly domestic or if imports were on the table, and when one of Mimic’s dangling tentacles had suddenly flicked upwards, bobbing towards the top shelf like a snake confronting a potential threat, Slinger had remarked that he could kiss him.

They’d all smiled. At the time, most of them had dismissed it as a joke.

By the time they find themselves staggering back to HQ, none of them know (or indeed care) whether the sun is rising or setting. Slinger plays scout, guiding them through the streets with a bawdy, half-remembered drinking song while Whisper’s slender frame supports Smithy’s bulk as best she’s able. 

“… _with his nose up his asshole and rolled in a ball, the hedgehog can never be buggered at all_ …”

Mimic’s grasping tentacles steer them in what he hopes is the right direction as Slinger hooks his elbow around a street-lamp like he’s doing a duet with it. The burly lion’s tottering footsteps almost yank them both off-balance as they sway wildly from side to side, giggling like frat boys- and not just at Slinger’s antics. 

One misstep and three of them could have ended up in the ocean. Slinger’s quip about hitting the drink elicits even a snort of mirth from Smithy, who’s far too inebriated to get the wordplay but enjoys the sound of Mimic’s hollow sniggering and Whisper’s throaty chuckles.

The door bangs open, loud enough to make Claire stir in her bunk but not enough to rouse the Wisps. They’re as worn out as she is, stacked like cuddly toys around her. Blue’s boxy outline is nestled in the middle of the pile, while the trailing limbs and appendages of the others are sprawled in a messy, fluorescent tangle, their gently pulsing bodies casting a warm, neon kaleidoscope of light onto the walls and ceiling.

A boozy cloud hangs around them like bad perfume as they collapse into the common area, shushing each other. The noise carries further than the chorus of half-stifled giggles, and Claire grimaces, pulling her pillow over her head. She’s already dreading the stinging beta waves that are going to be wafting off of them tomorrow as their hangovers begin to take hold, but the rest of her team aren’t thinking about tomorrow. 

The taste of gin and tonic lingers on Whisper’s tongue, mingling with the scents of her team’s chosen poisons. Smithy sampled two or three of just about every craft ale the establishment had to offer and Mimic loaded up on Bloody Marys before Slinger got them all doing shots. 

The world is a haze. Her eyelids feel leaden, narrowing her view to the firing slits of an armored vehicle. She navigates by touch and smell, feeling the warm, reassuring solidness of Smithy’s bare chest as her fingers comb through the flowing mane he’s long since loosened. Mimic and Slinger always make fun of what they insist is a man-bun, largely because they know it’s wrong and it pisses him off that they call it that, but Claire is always the one to reassure Smithy that it looks very dignified.

Whisper finds herself thinking it looks kind of hot, and a split-second later she finds herself wondering just where the fuck that came from.

Slinger announces to the room at large that he’s going to make margaritas- blended, no salt- before Mimic shushes him, no longer grinning, jerking his head meaningfully in the direction of Claire’s door. 

_Come on, man. She's sleeping._

Slinger meets him with an apologetic smile. His mouth forms the word _margaritas?_ without making the sound, and Mimic’s grin returns. 

Any soldier worth their salt- and their lime wedge, and their chaser- knows how to read lips. Claire, Mimic and Whisper go into battle wearing full-face helmets, but when you’re navigating silently through a non-permissive environment the slightest noise can give you away, and there’s only so much you can communicate through hand signals. 

Equipment is a tool, but it should never be a crutch. They all learned how to fight and how to survive long before the Wisps came to their world.

Smithy sighs contentedly as the couch sags beneath his bulk, one hand idly palming at Whisper’s bare shoulder as she presses an ear to his chest, taking in the steady thump of his heartbeat, the rumble of chemical reactions within him burning oxygen and digesting most of a platter full of nachos that he knows he’s going to regret as much as the ales tomorrow. 

If asked, none of them could say how much they spent on drink tonight, much less food. After days spent doing hard routine- no fires, meaning no hot food, nothing but water to wash down a little chocolate and a packet of crackers each- they’d gorged themselves on whatever greasy fare the sticky, laminated menus had to offer.

All it took was Slinger remarking that the mozzarella sticks sounded good for Smithy to point out that there were four of them, and since those things only ever came in little plates of like four or five at a time, they’d better order a few just to be safe, because Mimic was always stealing his fucking food. Mimic had opined that it always tasted better if it was off someone else’s plate, but this line of reasoning hadn’t stopped him being outraged when Whisper had helped herself to one of his onion rings.

Not like he could stay mad at that smile, though. Even with flaky beer batter and greasy onions crunching between fangs that were designed for piercing and tearing meat, he couldn’t be mad at her.

Not with her batting her eyelashes at him, grinning Slinger’s _what you gonna do_ grin at him.

Smithy belches, and Whisper inhales a hops-infused cloud of half-digested jalapeño poppers. She makes a face, and the lion smiles blearily down at her, half-amused, half-apologetic. Slinger is rummaging through the cupboards, looking for a blender, while Mimic’s tentacles crack one sixth of a six-pack against the bony hook of his beak. 

Whisper is hungry. 

It burns within her gut, and a wave of nausea washes over her before Smithy’s big, callused fingers begin working out a knot in her back. She hadn’t realized how tense she was until she feels herself loosening up, letting out a sigh that becomes a shuddering, breathy moan as he zeroes in with a sniper’s accuracy on the spot that’s been stiffened by days of crouching in an observation post, a rifle against her shoulder, a thermal blanket draped over her to hide her heat signature from prying robotic eyes.

Smithy’s eyes widen just a little, and she gives him a lazy smile as if to assure him that no, he’s not hurting her. The big guy doesn’t know his own strength.

Then a gradual movement draws her eye, so subtle that only one with the finely-attuned instincts of a stalking predator would catch it. Her half-lidded eyes travel unsubtly towards his crotch, and when she realizes what she’s looking at she can’t catch herself in time to stop her jaw dropping open slightly. 

Her elbow is brushing against the pitch of Smithy’s tent. He’s not even wearing pants, just trying unsuccessfully to tug his cloak over the growing tumescence, just sober enough that there’s a tinge of pink in his cheeks as Whisper stares, enraptured.

She looks, but doesn’t touch. Not at first. It’s too late to pretend she didn’t notice, to make some excuse to bustle off and join Slinger in his quest for the blender or ask Mimic if he minds sharing one of those beers, but that rather begs the question of what to do next.

She hesitates, and then finds the edge of Smithy’s cloak and begins to peel it away. He lets her, although the pinkness in his cheeks remains.

The little soldier stands to attention as though bracing for a drill sergeant’s appraisal on a parade ground. In fact- no. It’s not so little, actually. Holy shit. It looks almost as thick as her forearm. Maybe it’s the angle. Maybe it’s the beer goggles. 

Clearly, further investigation is warranted.

Smithy shudders as her fingers close around it, and now her eyes are widening as tentative arousal jockeys with burgeoning regret. Is she making a mistake? She looks to him for an answer, and he nods. Once, twice. Short, stiff gestures, but the approval is implicit.

Mimic fuzzes an empty beer can at Slinger as Slinger whispers something neither Smithy or Whisper can hear, and the two lapse into another bout of giggles, too caught up in their drink-fueled kitchen antics to notice Whisper massaging Smithy’s cock. The clatter of aluminum against granite tile and Slinger’s exaggerated shushing, addressed to the can, eliciting more sniggers from Mimic, steals the attention away from Smithy’s grunts of satisfaction away from all ears but Whisper’s.

Dimly, Slinger recalls that he never asked if Whisper and Smithy wanted margaritas; his announced intention to make them only got a response from Mimic, but when he turns to ask Whisper if she’s up for margaritas, she’s already got her mouth full.

Slinger fumbles the jug. Nearly drops it. Mimic starts sniggering again, thinking it’s a bit until Slinger grabs hold of his shoulder and gives it a rough shake without taking his eyes off of Smithy and Whisper.

Mimic thinks he’s fooling around. Gives his shoulder a playful shove until Slinger’s tugging at his cloak becomes insistent enough to irritate him. He watches the jug jerk in the direction of the couch, following the gesture, and the hinge of his beak drops open in astonishment as his dark eyes finally settle on what Slinger has been watching this whole time.

Whisper’s tongue slicks the head of Smithy’s cock as his big, callused fingers dig divots into the already beaten-up old couch. Her fingers are still wrapped around the base of his shaft, her free hand brushing errant strands of her fringe out of her eyes as she takes another plunge, straining her jaw to try and accommodate his girth as her nose inches towards his stomach. His other hand finds a grip around her own hair, his fingers standing in for a hair-tie as he guides it out of her face, tugging upwards at first as though silently urging her to take it easy, but he finds himself meeting resistance as her head jerks the other way.

He lowers his fist almost gingerly, pinching her makeshift ponytail like a cigarette between pointer and middle fingers as he palms the back of her skull, then pushes down. His groan is muffled by his clenched teeth. Hers is muffled by the cock plugging her throat, and becomes a hollow, subdued hiccuping sound as she gags on it.

Slinger stands at the arm of the sofa, dick in hand, rubbing himself and chewing mouthfuls of crushed ice he’s tipped from the blender. The crunching draws Whisper’s attention. She sees his grin first, then his member, proffered toward her by a gentle motion of his hips, a shuffle of his feet. 

He’s not as big as Smithy, but it still feels good in her hands. 

“Yeah,” Slinger murmurs, his eyelids fluttering but not shutting entirely. He can’t bring himself to look away from Smithy and Whisper. “Ahh, yeah. That’s it…”

Smithy’s interjections are limited to huffing and panting, shifting in his seat as he tries in vain to push his cock further into Whisper’s overburdened mouth. Her jaw is already starting to feel sore. Smithy pitches a tent in her cheek as she cranes her neck to look at Slinger, who’s still murmuring gentle encouragement as his fingers join Smithy’s own in her hair.

From the kitchen, Mimic watches over the top of his beer. Slinger notices, and motions for him to approach.

“Come on, man!”

Mimic takes another sip, saying nothing. Whisper comes up for air, and coughs quietly. A thin strand of drool hangs like a washing line between Smithy’s shaft and her lips as she huffs and puffs, transferring the workload to her hands. Slinger’s hand probes her crotch through the thin fabric of her leggings, taking the slow, shaky cadence of her breath as an invitation- nay, a request- to reach down past her waistband. A few seconds later, his gloved fingers come back shiny.

“Holy shit, you’re wet.”

The statement is ostensibly addressed to Whisper, who nods almost guiltily, but Mimic’s features flicker almost imperceptibly. Smithy watches her hands deftly continue working his shaft with something like wonderment as Slinger grins over at Mimic.

“You want to get in on this?”

Mimic sets down the can after a few more gulps of liquid courage, then walks over.

Smithy shifts, pulling Whisper onto his lap as she gropes for Mimic’s cock. She only rubs him for as long as it takes to get him from half-mast to full erect, then starts sucking him off, grinding her hips against Smithy’s own. It feels slick before she’s even introduced it to her mouth, with a faint iodine odor that’s unusual, but not altogether unpleasant. Slinger reaches for Whisper’s closest breast, giving it an almost absent-minded squeeze as Mimic shudders, his tentacles quivering. 

“Shit,” Mimic murmurs, half a groan. 

Slinger grins at him, hooks an arm around his shoulder, ostensibly to steady him. Their hips bump against each other. Slinger’s fingers dig into Mimic’s smooth flesh as Whisper swaps Mimic’s cock for Slinger’s, pumping Mimic’s shaft as Smithy hooks two trigger fingers into the waistband of Whisper’s leggings and begins slowly peeling them away from her slender body. 

The neatly-trimmed postage stamp of biscotti-colored hair makes Slinger lick his lips, an involuntary gesture that doesn’t go unnoticed by Mimic. A glimpse of the glistening wetness between her legs makes Smithy’s mouth dry; the spit-slicked thickness of his meat makes Whisper’s guts feel empty, a yawning void that begs to be filled.

Her boots come off with relative ease, and she silently praises her good fortune as the thick soles hit the ground with a muffled thump. She cannot bear to deliberate for even a moment. She is a slave to the demands of her own body, craving the immediacy of satisfaction that Slinger and Mimic cannot provide her from where they’re standing. Feeling them arch their backs as she quite literally wolfs down their offerings, the way they twitch and shudder- especially Mimic- as she sucks, slurps and squeezes whatever is presented to her, it’s not enough to sate her for more than a few moments. She hot-swaps, juggling them as masterfully as Slinger does his revolver-type Wispons, her movements as graceful as a soldier reloading a weapon that they have spent weeks training with. Nobody is shooting at her, but her aggression is focused, demanding. She craves return fire.

Whisper bears down on Smithy, cunt-first. His big, strong arms wrap around her, pulling her pert, pretty breasts into his mouth. His beard is soft against her stomach, the rich, chocolatey notes of malt rising from between her cleavage as he runs his tongue between them, his quiet belch unnoticed by everyone except the wolf, who feels the faint tremor in his barrel chest. 

Mimic is quivering, rigid in her hand while Slinger’s thumbs massage the back of her ears. He knows exactly how good that feels, the son of a bitch.

“Good girl,” she hears him whisper, and she almost wants to bite him before she decides that she doesn’t even care. 

It’s Christmas. She’s sitting in Santa’s lap, but she’s not going to tell him what she wants. She intends to take it. She’s having all her presents early this year, and she’s going to give as good as she gets.

She straddles Smithy, gripping Mimic and Slinger like they’re handlebars, and lowers herself onto the head of his shaft just a bit too quick. 

Holy shit. Okay. Maybe she was a little overzealous. She bites down on a whimper, not fast enough to stop the first few notes from escaping. Her cheeks go pink. Mimic gives her a lopsided grin. Slinger swallows hard, and she feels his cock twitch against her palm. Smithy looks into her eyes, hands on her hips, holding her in place. Steady as a rock.

Smithy’s eyes lock with hers, and again, there’s the unspoken question. 

She almost resents it. Almost resents being asked. Almost. It’s very sweet and very typical of Smithy. Even after enough drink to sink a canoe, the big guy has the wherewithal to worry about those smaller than himself. Whisper is small, and slight of build. The heart of a pack leader pumps beneath the shapely breasts, her slender form trembling with exertion as adrenaline flushes gin and tonic through her veins. She is a predator. A hunter. She is voracious, but everybody has limits.

…don’t they?

She answers Smithy’s question with her body, guiding him into her with the hand that had been jerking Slinger off mere seconds prior, pausing mid-stroke as Mimic’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. Neither he nor Slinger can believe it, but they’re both captivated by the display. Mimic is unable to stop himself from feeling a little pang of jealousy as Smithy buries himself up to the hilt in Whisper, his mouth open in a cry of soundless ecstasy.

Slinger is almost too turned on to be jealous of either one of them.

Whisper’s heart rate accelerates from a canter to a gallop as she rides Smithy. She could sit comfortably in the palm of one of his hands; his fingers and thumbs clamp around her sides, guiding the bucking of her hips, but there’s never any question of who’s in control. A single squeeze of Whisper’s thighs could wring him dry, but she’s not done just yet. Not by a long shot. Slinger and Mimic’s jostling dicks are appetizing, tempting, but she wants to enjoy the entrée before she starts thinking about dessert.

Mimic’s legs are trembling. Slinger leans into him, whispers something close enough to his neck that it’s dangerously close to a kiss. Whisper gags on the encroaching slickness of Mimic’s cock as Smithy’s teeth gently navigate around her nipples, and Mimic’s knees almost buckle. Slinger has one hand on the back of Mimic’s neck, finding a handhold beneath the quivering tentacles, his forehead pressing against Mimic’s own.

Mimic can feel Slinger’s hot breath in his eyes, and makes a concerted effort- for a shapeshifter- to keep a straight face.

Slinger wants what Smithy’s having. They annex Whisper’s breasts, Smithy gently teething and kissing while Slinger alternates between lashing her nipples with his tongue and greedily sucking at them, listening for her responses and gauging what she wants while helping himself to whatever she’ll permit him to have.

Whisper has half a mind to make him cum inside her, but dismounts when his breaths start becoming ragged, labored. He’s been good. He deserves a break, and Slinger and Mimic deserve a reward for waiting so patiently.

She kisses Slinger, feels his tongue exploring her mouth as his hands fill the outlines of where Smithy’s massive paws had been gripping. She palms his cock. Feels something smooth, velvety and faintly cool touch her buttocks. Then another. Then two more. Probing the crease. Tracing the curves. Experimenting. Pushing boundaries. 

Whisper makes up her mind. She breaks the kiss, and communicates more to Slinger with a glance than most people could with a sonnet. Slinger grins. Kisses her again, then motions for Smithy to rejoin them. Smithy has helped himself to one of Mimic’s beers, and makes a _wait one second_ gesture with a still-wet finger. 

Slinger pouts. Drags Whisper and Mimic over to the kitchen in some kind of bizarre, semi-clothed conga-line, then kisses Smithy full on the mouth as Whisper stoops to take him into hers. Smithy kisses him back as she grunts around his cock. Her tail wags. She presents herself to Mimic, tempting. Mimic watches Slinger and Smithy making out for a few seconds before tearing his gaze away and returning it to Whisper.

Her skin is smooth. Shiny. Speckled with sweat. He stoops down, and his tentacles and tongue trace the curve, lapping her sweat into his mouth.

Salty, like the sea.

Whisper lets out a low rumbling sound as the plates of his beak scrape against her soft flesh. He kisses her, as best he can without lips. Making use of what he has. His tongue is rough and hard, coarse wetness protruding from between the bony curve of his jaw like a wet washcloth, but the motions he makes are soft. Uncharacteristically gentle, for a man who seldom allows anyone to get close unless he plans to beat them senseless.

She feels him chart a path up her back, mapping out her back and shoulder muscles, the hook of his beak following her spine to the nape of her neck, and she shivers, still sucking on Slinger. 

Slinger isn’t even looking at Whisper. He’s looking at Mimic. The way he touches her, his tentacles draped over her shoulders, tips tracing the architecture of her collarbone. The suckers adhere to her skin, leaving rows of little hickeys as they pop free. 

Slinger licks his lips as Whisper huffs out a breathy moan around him.

“…You want to fuck her?”

He tries not to sound too eager. He knows exactly what Mimic wants, but he cannot bring himself to admit to Mimic what he wants without beginning or finishing the sentence with _no homo_.

That’s all this is, Mimic thinks to himself, even as Whisper is reaching back for him, finding him, gripping him perhaps just a little bit too hard, guiding him into her. It’s just a little fun. 

He puts his hands on her hips. Slinger’s hands rest on his. He almost pulls away- a reflex- but doesn’t.

Smithy’s beer bottle is halfway to his lips. Slinger’s cock is halfway to Whisper’s.

“Fuck her,” Slinger urges Mimic, in a breathless whisper. He forgets to smile and quickly corrects himself. Doesn’t want to spook him. Just a little fun, that’s all. Just a few friends having fun with each other. “Come on, Mimic.”

Whisper lets out a whine. Wanting. Aching. The void in her gut yawns. 

Mimic follows the order like a good little soldier. It isn’t Slinger that he’s obeying.

He shudders as he feels himself slide into Whisper. Feels her clench around him, accommodating the length and girth of his cock and sealing him in like a vacuum. Hungry. Wanting him. She will not relinquish her grip until her body has been satiated.

Mimic’s tentacles creep past Whisper’s neck and below her arms to fondle her breasts, thick and slick, the tapering ends spiraling lightly around her nipples as he pulls her off of Slinger by a handful of her hair.

Slinger’s hand quickly fills in for Whisper’s lips, pumping his shaft to the spectacle. 

“Oh, fuck…yes, yes, yes…good, that’s good…”

Whisper winks at Slinger. Slinger grins shakily at her, and for a moment he’s worried that Mimic might notice until his eyes drift to the octopus’ face. 

Mimic is gazing at the back of Whisper’s neck with a strange intensity that is unnerving and erotic in equal measure. The hook of his beak grazes her shoulders as he lowers himself onto her, one hand charting a course around her hips to settle between her thighs with a deftness that belies the way the other one trembles as his fingers grip her shoulder. 

Soft and hard. Hard and soft. Whisper growls, and Mimic responds with a low, breathy grunt in response, as if they’re communicating in some dialect long forgotten, lost to the expanse of time in which their most distant ancestors had first learned to walk and talk and think thoughts more complex than the urge to feed and reproduce. They are driven by something primal, lost in the architecture of one another’s bodies. 

Whisper and Mimic have fought wars alongside one another. They have supported each other, covered each other, placed their trust in each other. At this moment, they are strangers. Having forgotten each other, they are now getting to know each other again.

One of Smithy’s massive paws settles on Slinger’s chest, then drifts down to his abdomen, closing around the ample length and width of his shaft as if it were a toothpick.

“Here,” he murmurs, after gently peeling Slinger’s fingers away and replacing them with his own, squeezing his other hand affectionately. “Let me get that for you.”

“Thanks,” Slinger says fondly, and treats him to a lazy smile for the second and a half it takes for Smithy to kiss him. The lion’s muscular body is warm and solid against Slinger’s back, his bare chest at once cushioning and supporting him. Smithy’s own prodigious cock swells anew against the younger man’s smaller, slighter body, his head gently but insistently pressing into the small of his partner’s back as he rolls his hips, encouraged by the way Slinger wiggles against him.

“You gonna cum?” Smithy asks, after a few minutes of Slinger thrusting into the soft, hermetic aperture of his cupped fingers.

“Maybe,” Slinger concedes, giving Whisper a meaningful look. 

“Come on,” Smithy urges him, a low rumble. “Cum for me.”

“You first.”

Smithy’s labored breaths announce his impending orgasm mere seconds before Slinger feels a salvo of hot cum splashing against his bare back, finishing what Whisper’s hands, mouth and cunt had started. He feels Smithy’s bulk trembling, squeezing his shoulders like handlebars, steering his twitching cock against him. 

Slinger isn’t looking at Smithy. He isn’t even focusing on him. His focus is on Whisper and Mimic. 

Mimic’s hands are on Whisper’s breasts, two hanging tentacles coiling snugly around her neck as another approaches her throat from the inside, heedless of her sharp teeth even as she triggers her gag reflex in her eagerness to swallow him. Slinger watches the spectacle in awe, only dimly cognizant of Smithy’s load dripping down his back, captivated by the sway of Whisper’s breasts in the octopus’ hands, the thin rivulets of drool that seep past the confines of her plugged mouth as he fills her from both ends, lancing her like a joint of meat on a spit.

Whisper jerks, gagging again, and the muffled moan that bubbles around the plunging length of Mimic’s tentacle is enough to set him off. His lithe, smooth body trembles as he nears his climax, and for a moment Slinger wonders if he’s even going to pull out, or if he’s just going to cum inside her.

The thought stirs something within him. There’s a sudden tightness in his chest, accompanied by a twinge of something that he initially has pegged as the familiar, indecent thrill of lust before he senses a bitter edge to it, like the caustic aftertaste that accompanies the smoky warmth of a downed shot. 

His sin is not merely explicable lust, but jealousy. Something much harder to quantify.

Mimic pulls out at the last possible second. His orgasm is subdued, almost silent, as if reluctant to upstage Smithy’s groaning crescendo. A warm, sticky rope of cum lashes Whisper’s buttocks, making her gasp in what sounds like delight as his tentacle pops free of her mouth. Several more streams follow it, languidly painting her back and shoulders as Mimic sags, his beak clenched, breaths hissing through his nostrils as his shaft peers around Whisper’s tail, leaking onto the supple curve of her ass.

Slinger’s heart is pounding as he passes Whisper, sorely tempted to high-five her but settling for a smirk that’s flashed in passing as she settles against Smithy’s proffered hand, grinding slickly against his fingers. Mimic’s gaze is still fixed on the back of her neck, even as Slinger reaches for him.

“Want me to clean you up?” 

The octopus hesitates, or appears to, perhaps not even hearing Slinger. It’s only when Slinger’s fingers graze the smooth skin of his still-twitching length that Mimic meets his eyes, rose irises lost in the penumbra of his gaze as he focuses on Slinger.

There’s a nod. Subtle. Distant. But it’s there, and it’s all the encouragement that Slinger needs to lower himself to his knees before Mimic.

He palms Mimic’s thighs. Finds them firm, with a muscular stiffness that’s belied by the way he looks down at the younger man, almost reluctant. Guilty. Wanting him, perhaps- perhaps simply wanting what Slinger can give him- but not altogether reassured by the way Slinger smiles up at him.

Slinger’s genial aloofness is a facade, veiling what he really thinks of Mimic even as he prepares to indulge in what he has craved for so long, like every _no homo_ he’s ever tacked on to the end of a flirtation directed at Mimic. He hears Whisper whimper as she cums on Smithy’s fingers, and feels another twinge of jealousy. He can’t even allow himself to display ingenuous enthusiasm for fear of freaking Mimic out. Like any good hunter, he knows he must set his quarry at ease before moving in for the kill.

He touches himself as enthusiastically as he wishes he could touch Mimic, keeping his expression one of playful nonchalance. Lying to himself. Feeling like a fraud. A sham. 

Hating himself. Loving him.

His lips have barely made contact with Mimic when a movement, a small sound in the doorway draws his attention. A first kiss, interrupted.

Claire’s jaw hangs slack with astonishment, eyes wide, cheeks scarlet. She blinks hard, as though half-convinced that she’s still asleep, having stumbled into a dream that’s not her own.

“H’lo,” Whisper mumbles, with a shy grin. Smithy looks apologetic, his fingers still against Whisper’s cunt, his spent cock valiantly trying to draw itself to attention. Mimic looks anywhere that allows him to avoid eye contact as Slinger smirks over the top of the octopus’ spit-slicked shaft.

“So, uh…you just going to stand in the door all night? Or are you going to join the party?”

A party. Friends having fun.

That’s all this is, Slinger tells himself, as he resumes sucking Mimic off. He feels a dull prickle of muted satisfaction as Claire gasps, gingerly stepping across the threshold after Whisper treats her to a come-hither stare from half-lidded eyes, dragging her tongue over her teeth and lips.

Just a few friends having fun.


End file.
